


what stands in the way becomes the way

by Ias



Series: the things to which fate binds you [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: It starts as all the worst things do, with a winning smile and a pair of lies: “My name is John Silver, and I happen to be a very good cook.”





	what stands in the way becomes the way

 

It starts as all the worst things do, with a winning smile and a pair of lies: “My name is John Silver, and I happen to be a very good cook.”

And, all factors considered, it seems quite likely to end right here: on the deck of the _Walrus_ , with a lie and a pair of swords. Only this time, for a pleasant change of pace, it’s not Silver doing the lying.

At the center of the main deck, the most feared pirate captain in all the West Indies shrugs off her coat.  The frame it reveals is clearly accustomed to the rigors of life at sea; but Singleton still has half a head over her, and god knows how much muscle. The crew has formed an unruly throng on the main deck and the railings above, closing around the fighters like a noose. Silver has secured herself a place at the front of the crowd, arms crossed over her chest so she can surreptitiously brush her fingers over the leather case tucked in her jacket, comforting herself with the knowledge that the page is still in her possession. That done, she shifts her arms over her bound chest and bites the inside of her cheek where it threatens to dimple in a smile.

Flint’s eyes are fiery, but they shine out of a face grey with exhaustion. She’s a much different sight from the woman Silver first glimpsed stalking along the railing of Parrish’s ship, her dark coat catching the wind, her red hair pulled back in a topknot. At the time Silver had stared with open curiosity at the woman who walked the ship with the confidence of command, tall enough to be of a height with many of the men on her crew; she carried herself in a series of rigid lines, straight back and taut shoulders and jutting chin, surveying the activity on deck with a frown that appeared permanently etched onto her features.

Silver had leaned in closer to the muscle-bond boatswain at her side. “Who is that?”

Billy shot her a condescending look. “ _That_ is our Captain.”

Silver blinked. She looked between Billy and the woman standing on the quarterdeck, who stood now with her legs planted firmly and her hands gripped behind her back in a military posture. “ _That’s Captain Flint_?”

It has been, all in all, a strange couple of days.

Perhaps the most surprising thing of all is that Flint does not appear frightened. Her face is set, her mouth a thin line, and that ever-present scowl set deep on her face. Gates hovers nearby, looking worried enough for the both of them. Despite the fact that they were introduced with Gates’s loaded pistol raised between them, Silver has always thought he looks more the part of a jolly baker selling meat-pies in Cheapside than a bloodthirsty pirate quartermaster. Now he appears like nothing so much as a worried mother hen.

The crew does not share his concern. Their excitement is palatable as they jostle at the sidelines, mouths split into broad grins as Singleton and Flint take their places. Silver’s eyes scan their faces. What’s strange is not to see women working aboard the ship, but rather to see them not even attempting to conceal it. In her time at sea Silver has met others like her, though kept a healthy distance to avoid outing them both. They move from ship to ship, crew to crew, never staying long enough to risk being discovered. But the women on this crew speak each other’s names, talk and move with the familiarity of long association. In the end Silver figures a fifth of the _Walrus’s_ crew must be female, and taking no particular pains to hide it. They call and jeer beside the men in the crowd with equal enthusiasm.

Silver could not have done better if she had orchestrated the entire thing herself. Her heart is still beating its way up from the pit of her stomach, where it dropped when Flint first revealed she knew a crewmember had stolen the missing page. She had already been reaching for the paring knife stashed in her pocket, eyes darting for any possible escape. And then, Flint had rounded on Singleton and accused _him_ of stealing it, and Silver had stood stock-still and blinking in disbelief—and then relief which threatened to bubble over into pure, raucous laughter.

It was all so very neat. Flint and her suspicions eliminated in a single stroke, leaving the way clear to sell the page—for there is no way, of course, that Singleton can lose. The man is a shark. Silver can see it in his eyes, and written all over his carved-up face.

At long last, Singleton and Flint square off, their swords in hand. The faint creases from the sides of Flint’s nose to the corners of her mouth deepen as she squints against the sun. Singleton bears his teeth in a feral grin. The air smells like salt and sweaty bodies. A frission of anticipation ripples through the crew as they all watch like scavengers waiting for fresh meat. No matter which captain they’re supporting, there’s not a man or woman here not eager to see the blood start to flow.

With a roar, Singleton charges. Flint’s sword meets his with a clash of steel, and then they’re both at it. Silver knows very little about fighting and even less about swordplay, but she’ll wager a guess that this is not a sterling example of sportsmanship and form. Singleton wields his sword like an axe, all devastating swing and bone-breaking power. It’s only a matter of time before he splits Flint in half a like a log. But Flint is fast—Singleton’s sword always finds hers waiting for it, deflecting his blade to the side rather than trying to block the full weight of his strength. Singleton throws elbows, lashes out with his hands and his feet, and those blows land where his sword does not, sending Flint stumbling backwards step by step, her dodges progressively slower.

In truth, Silver is barely paying attention. She’s already mentally composing a list of everything she’s going to buy with the money for the page when Singleton kicks Flint in the chest like a mule, and sends her falling backwards over a canon with her guard flung wide open. Singleton advances, sword held high. Well, that’s it then. Silver is just about to turn to the man at her side and ask if these things are usually over so quickly when the clang of sword on canon-barrel rings like a gong.

Flint straightens up from where she’d thrown herself to the side, her feet planted firmly on the deck once more. Singleton rounds on her again. His eyes are burning with the pure hatred of a predator denied the kill. When he attacks again his strikes are more measured, calculated. Still Flint turns them away, their bodies circling closer, leaving no more room to dodge. Singleton’s elbow hits her face so quickly that Silver almost doesn’t see it happen—but she does see his sword arc out in a flash of light, and suddenly Flint is doubled over with her free hand pressed to her chest.

Silver can’t help but wince at that. Red runs down the white of Flint’s loose shirt and cakes her mouth and chin. She staggers but keeps her feet. Still she and Singleton circle. Silver has to admit, she’s paying attention now. The cries and hoots from the crew are almost deafening, spit flying and hands smacking the wooden railings hard enough to bruise their fists. The two fighters don’t once look up from the nest of steel they’re weaving between them.

For a moment it seems that Singleton will have her pinned, will finally be able to leverage his superior strength against her—but then Flint lashes out with a wisely placed knee, and dances away when Singleton stumbles. The crowd is getting rowdier, buffeting Silver from her place at the front for a better view. Over the mad sea of heads and shoulders all pushing forward or back she sees Singleton’s sword snap, sees him lay Flint out on the deck and then lunges atop her to push his broken blade through her eye; but Flint jerks to the side and the point buries itself in the deck and there’s something in her hand—

The sound is like a meat cleaver hitting a cutting block as the canon ball in Flint’s fist makes contact with Singleton’s skull. He falls off her, the expression on his face stupid with pain. Blindly, he reaches for his sword. He never touches it.

In numb disbelief, Silver watches as Flint leaps onto him like a fucking _animal_ , her hand rising and falling again and again with that god-awful sound. With a start, Silver realizes why she can hear it at all—there are no more taunts from the crew now. It’s as silent as a tomb but for the sound of Flint at work. It’s impossible even to say whether the guttural cries are coming from Singleton as his skull is caved in one blow at a time, or from Flint herself.

At last, when Singleton is dead and has likely been so for some time, the blows stop falling. Self-preservation momentarily forgotten, Silver pushes forward to watch as Flint raises her head, teeth bared and bloody, her hunched shoulders trembling where the white shirt clings to her sweat-soaked skin. Now there’s no sound but her breathing, hardly any movement at all; until Flint pulls something from Singleton’s clothes and turns to the boatswain. There’s a beat. And then, still crouched over the gory pulp that used to be Singleton, Flint thrusts the bloody scrap of paper towards Billy with a trembling hand. Silver can only stare. The tableau is so believable that Silver herself has to surreptitiously pat her coat and ensure the page is still safely where she left it.

“It’s the stolen page.” The silence that rises up in the wake of Billy’s voice is deafening. Every single pair of eyes on that ship turns to Flint as she raises her head. The green of her eyes, so terrible against the blood. The mad glint in them. Silver cannot look away.

“Friends,” she says. Her voice is hoarse, thick and choked with blood. “Brothers.” She gets one foot under her, and then another—by some miracle, she staggers to her feet. Her legs are so unsteady it looks like she might collapse in an instant. She doesn’t. Something burns inside of her now, shining out through her eyes, and it will not let her fall.

“The prize that you and I have been pursuing,” she says, her voice growing stronger with every word between the ragged harshness of her breathing. “Is _L’Urca de Lima._ ” Flint turns to scan the shocked faces of her crew as the ripple of disbelief travels through them. “The Hulk! A prize of almost unimaginable value!”

She steps forward across the deck and into the full sunlight. “Now with this page securely in our possession, we can begin our hunt. And we _will_ succeed,” she snarls, her voice carrying with the force of practice, of orders bellowed over the roar of a storm. “No matter the cost. No matter the struggle. I will see that prize is yours _._ ”

For a moment her chest heaves, the red stain painting her from throat to belt. When she straightens up she stands like a colossus in the sun. “I’m not just going to make you rich. I’m not just going to make you strong.” She bares teeth caked in blood. “ _I’m going to make you the princes of the New World_!”

Silence, and then: the beat starts up. Hands and feet striking the railings, the decks, the rhythm slow and then growing faster, rising until the entire ship is pounding like a heartbeat. The cry that tears from the throats of the crew seems to make the air itself shudder. And Flint, standing in the center of that maelstrom, swaying on her feet, covered in blood, riding the torrent of their adoration like a ship driven before the storm. Silver watches her, in shock, in disbelief, in fear, in actual goddamn awe. And, to be quite honest, no small amount of apprehension.

For the first time she truly understands the nature of the powder keg tucked within her coat.  She understands, as she stares at Singleton’s body, one step from captain and now nothing more than a piece of festering meat already forgotten on the deck, just what Captain Flint will do to her if she finds out who _really_ stole the missing page.

Flint’s eyes do not note Silver’s presence where she lingers in the shadows on the periphery. She watches Flint in the midst of her triumph, fingers subtly pressing the outline of the leather case to her chest. It’s clear now that Flint is every ounce the monster the stories have made her out to be. And Silver—Silver is nothing and no one, a liar and a thief and an unabashed coward, who ought to be dropping the page and catching the first ship going anywhere. She has never been one for risky gambles—she has certainly never been one to gamble with her skin. But for five million dollars of Spanish gold, she’s willing to bet her life that the notorious Captain Flint has met her match in John Silver.

She pats her jacket one final time, and slips away from the cheering crew with a smile that no one sees.

**Author's Note:**

>  _“The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.”_ — Marcus Aurelius
> 
> hi guys so uh just a quick update, lesbian silverflint has climbed inside of my soul and consumed me from the inside out and this is all i care about and will ever care about again
> 
> i have about 4 separate fics in this series currently drafted, and they'll be going up over the couple weeks as i edit them--i'm anticipating there being even more because see above.


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